When Sherlock woke up the next morning, John was hovering near his bare legs. Sherlock blinked sleepily at the other man, who was staring intently at Sherlock's legs. Sherlock wrapped his sheet tighter around himself and shivered at John's inspection.

"What are you doing?" he finally asked.

John looked up at him with his eyebrows furrowed.

"Why do I remember seeing your bare legs last night?" John questioned.

Sherlock's throat went dry. John was about to put two and two together.

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock said calmly, "I've been laying here practically all night."

Not technically a lie, Sherlock thought to himself.

"I was at the bar," John remembered, "And I was talking to Beth. And then I came home and went to bed. I can't think of any time I should've seen your legs and yet I vividly remember seeing them."

John's eyes were closed in concentration.

"Wait," his eyes popped open, "Were you laying here when I got home?"

Sherlock nodded in confirmation.

"Ah," John said, "Must have seen them when I came in then."

He looked thoughtful for another moment and then shook his head dismissively once again.

"Anyway, tea?" he prompted, smiling lightly.

"Yes," Sherlock croaked out, swinging his legs off the couch.

John stared at the motion as it happened, his eyebrows knitting together. He shrugged and ambled off towards the kitchen. Sherlock wondered how he was in such a good mood with a hangover. Perhaps he didn't drink enough to get a hangover, Sherlock thought briefly. He pulled his sheet around himself and meandered into the kitchen to observe John. John smiled at him briefly when he entered the room and went back to tea and toast making.

Sherlock frowned. There was something about John that seemed different. His shoulders seemed less tense than normal. His hand wasn't shaking like it did when Sherlock stared at him, even though Sherlock was in fact staring at him. John looked at him and smiled again. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back at the other man. John held out a plate and a mug, which Sherlock took without arguing.

I wonder if this has anything to do with Beth, Sherlock pondered as he made his way to the sofa. He chewed the toast John had given him, but he couldn't really taste any flavor. Maybe he just really enjoyed her company…he thought as the toast turned into paste in his mouth. He swallowed thickly and the pasty toast lumped in his throat. He swallowed again, but it didn't seem to want to dislodge. He let out a hacking cough and the lump stayed lodged in his throat. He tried to gasp in air, but that only served to further his choking.

Suddenly, he was yanked up and arms wrapped around him. A fist thrust upwards under his ribcage and he felt himself lift up along with the lump in his throat. The lump found its way to his mouth and he choked it out into his hands. He hacked a bit more, before knocking John out of the way and running to the bathroom. He gagged and vomited into the toilet, falling to his knees. Shudders raked his body as he vomited over and over again. He was vaguely aware of hands on his head. He gasped and tried to calm himself.

"You're ok," he heard John's voice whisper, "You're ok. It's alright Sherlock. Just breathe slowly. Deep breath in through the nose. Use your nose some more there Sherlock. It's ok, love. Just breathe. You're ok."

Sherlock managed to calm his breath in accordance to John's whispers. He leaned against John's chest, weak from the whole affair.

"Yeah, it's hard the first time," John whispered, his hand stroking Sherlock's hair, "You're ok. I've got you."

"I know," Sherlock gasped out in a raspy voice, "You always have me…"

"That's right," John agreed softly, "I've always got you."

Sherlock felt the knife twisting feeling again. He felt guilty for everything he'd ever done to inconvenience John in any way. He felt awful for always dismissing John's feelings and ideas. He choked back a sob and grabbed ahold of John's shirt. He stared desperately into the man's eyes, trying to open his mouth and say something, anything. But his mouth remained sealed shut. John smiled softly down at him.

"It's ok," John said quietly, "I understand. You're welcome."

"Right," Sherlock managed, pushing himself off of John's chest.

He stood up and excited the bathroom, aiming for his own room. He heard flushing behind him, which meant John was taking care of the nastiness Sherlock had spewed into the toilet. He stopped in the kitchen and quickly washed his hands of the gross paste that had come from his throat. He shivered as he remembered the brief moment. It had only been mere seconds, but Sherlock could have died. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration…

John came into the kitchen and smiled at him.

"You alright?" he questioned gently.

"Obviously," Sherlock toned.

John's smiled vanished.

"Well, let me know if you need something," John said.

He turned back around and went to the living room. Sherlock felt guilty again. He hated feeling guilty. He made it a general rule to never feel guilty and yet as time went on he felt more and more guilty for not being what John deserved. Sherlock stomped into his room and slammed the door. He unceremoniously threw himself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. His eyes blurred slightly as he entered his Mind Palace.

"John?" he called, his voice echoing off the white walls.

"Sherlock!" John called back from somewhere to his left.

Sherlock turned to the sound and smiled. John was lounging on his armchair, grinning at Sherlock.

"What's up, little pup?" John laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to sit by the John in his mind.

"John, I need to ask you something," Sherlock said seriously.

John sat up straighter and donned on his you-have-all-my-attention look that Sherlock loved.

"What do you need, John?" Sherlock questioned in a timid voice.

John seemed rather taken aback by the question. He tapped his chin thoughtfully before answering.

"Well, a roof over my head, food, tea," John listed off, smiling slightly, "But I also need love from friends and family. That's what makes us different, Sherlock."

"Yes, I figured as much," Sherlock said tiredly, "Look, John, I'm no good with sentiment."

John smiled warmly at him and reached forward, taking one of his hands in his.

"Sherlock, I don't need you to be sentimental," John said in a sweet voice, "I just need you to listen when I'm talking occasionally. Every once in a while it would be nice if you actually at least pretended to care about my feelings. I know, I know, you don't understand them, but just listen once in a while. That's all I really need. Just for you to listen to me, not to understand."

Sherlock smiled widely.

"I do believe you're right," Sherlock said brightly, "I can do that as Beth!"

John smiled at him and faded away, squeezing his hand briefly as he dissipated.

Sherlock frowned as he found himself back on his bed staring at the ceiling. But the frown soon changed when he realized that he could be a friend to John by being Beth. John seemed willing to talk to Beth and since Sherlock would be in that persona, it would be easier to act the way John would need him to. Sherlock felt the knife twisting feeling as he thought about how it wouldn't really be him becoming close to John. He didn't know why that upset him. Hell, he didn't even know why he felt it necessary to get close to John. He just knew that there was some reason that he had to.